


A shape you wore in dreams

by Combination_NC



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky solves a problem by riding Steve's dick, Captain America: The First Avenger, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Howling Commandos Era, M/M, Pining, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-01 03:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12696378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Combination_NC/pseuds/Combination_NC
Summary: It's not exactly a case of absence making the heart grow fonder; more like the distance war put between them when Bucky left for Europe making him realize just how much fondness his heart held for Steve to begin with.Too bad it looks like he's going to die on this examination table before he can tell him about it.





	A shape you wore in dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sourgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourgold/gifts).



Bucky is spending his last breaths stuck in a strange dying dream where Steve is a soldier come to rescue him from the examination table he’s strapped to, only he’s a lot bigger than he remembers. He pats him down with unfamiliar broad hands, checking for injuries; one of his gloves comes away bloody after brushing against the left side of his head. Bucky would tell him it’s too late, what with him dying and all, but it seems rude to interrupt the vision’s work and he isn’t sure if you can even tell a body has been electrocuted after the fact anyway, so maybe dream Steve won’t notice.  Unless his hair got fried in the process and is standing on end. In that case, no version of Steve would ever let him live it down.

It might be for the best there’s nothing to see. He’s not feeling too keen on talking about the injections and the electricity and the strange blue light washing over the dirty brick walls and the searing pain that followed just on principle, but he doesn't want to spend his last moments dwelling on all that when he’s finally with Steve again either. It’s been so hard, being away from him. Going through Basic had been rough on its own merits, working his body harder than he’d ever had reason to before, but the physical ache following the training was nothing against the gnawing feeling of loneliness he never seemed able to shake. It shouldn’t have grated on him so, surrounded by the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers to be as he was, but Steve’s absence was still like a hole that couldn’t be filled. His familiar presence had always been something else.

And it has slowly dawned on him that what he had always taken for granted as something good and natural mightn’t quite be, at least not in the eyes of others. It was one thing to miss having his back in a stupid back alley fight, one thing to miss having someone he could always rely on no matter what, and quite another to miss the tenderness of patching up each other’s wounds, the closeness of nights when it got just a bit too cold to keep apart.

He hadn’t dwelled so much on those things back home; hadn’t really needed to, not when Steve’s presence had almost been like an extension of himself. He’d been there to sling his arm around and pull close, and Bucky hadn’t had any reason to reflect on why he did so as much as he could.

Things changed a bit, listening to the other fellows talking about their girls back home, passing pictures around and sharing stories. For all his taking his fair share of girls out dancing, Bucky had found those weren’t the stories he was the happiest to tell, not the ones that kept his mood up as they got closer and closer to being sent out to experience real combat. Because where the others had actresses from the pictures to moon over and sweethearts to miss and vow to fight for, what kept Bucky’s grounded and determined to protect was the scrawny friend he’d left back in his old neighborhood. It was a troubling realisation, and one he figured he ought to do something about once he’d managed to make sense of it to himself, but, well. He’d gotten back to Brooklyn, held Steve close and still hadn't know what to do with the tight, confused feeling in his chest, and figured if it didn’t make sense to himself yet it probably wouldn’t to Steve either.

And, well. Then he’d shipped out and had an awful lot of time to think during the voyage over the Atlantic, but he hadn’t really made much process, so he’d kept right on thinking through the war. It ended up keeping Steve constantly on his mind, which really didn’t help with the ever-increasing loneliness. He did get further in his explorations of his own tightly tangled up feelings, though. Thinking about how much he missed slinging his arm over Steve's skinny shoulders led to thinking that it would've been nice to put that arm around his waist every now and then. Ruffling his hair to annoy him was all well and good, but maybe just once it'd be nice to press a kiss on the top of his head instead. And maybe sharing the same bed wouldn't have had to be reserved for the coldest of nights, and he thought the skin at the nape of Steve's neck must be soft, and a good spot to kiss him goodnight.

So even if telling Steve about it would have only brought him rejection or even been met with disgust, it feels a bit like a waste to not even have tried now that he's facing death.  
  
But it seems something has seen fit to grant him a last chance to try and sort it out, so he’s not going to waste it even if it’s just a dream. Maybe the dream won’t mind so much that he’s not completely sure how to explain it, either. It's not the sort of thing you usually have to tell your best friend, after all.

 _Hey, Steve? All those times I held you close? I wanted to hold you even closer. Hey, Steve? All those times I dragged you on those double dates? I wished I could be the one sitting next to you. Hey, Steve? When I offered to teach you to dance, it was because I wanted to dance with you. Hey, Steve? I think I've had this feeling for the longest time, but I never figured out the words to tell you._  
  
Unfortunately, his dream of Steve doesn’t seem to pick up on the fact that this is a time for reflection and closure, simply grabbing him by the arm and halfway dragging him through the examination room. Well, maybe that’s for the best, too; it’s not the most scenic setting, cold and dark and with an unpleasant smell seared into the walls. He expects him to drag him out to a nicer dreamspace, maybe something with fresh air and some greenery. It'd be more suited for the kind of confession he has in mind, and it’s his dream, after all. It's only fair his subconsciousness put them somewhere nicer.

“What happened to you?” he has to ask as they make their way forwards. His head is swimming and his knees are shaking and he’s not sure of a lot of things at the moment, but he’s pretty certain he used to be the taller one. There are some hazy memories of holding Steve like Steve does for him now, supporting his weight to keep him upright after a fight ended to their disadvantage and it not being all too hard since he didn’t weigh much in comparison. It’s kind of nice to be held like this, though. Reminds him of other things that felt nice, and that there’s something he was about to say—  
  
“I joined the army.”  
  
Bucky blinks. He’s not sure what he expected, but probably something other than that. It seems reasonable, though; he himself did put on a lot of weight in muscle during Basic. And he’s been at war for a long, long time. He’s not sure how long, but maybe long enough for Steve to get big. Time’s been working a bit funny since he got captured. Maybe he's just been gone a lot longer than he assumed, or maybe people grow faster inside dreams?   
  
For a brief moment, he’s terrified he might be the one stuck in Steve’s dying dream instead of the other way around; Steve had wanted to become a soldier, after all, and maybe death grants you a taste of what you’ve always wanted before snatching it all away. Bucky has never died before, so he can’t be sure.  
  
He tries to assess Steve’s status, but he’s having trouble focusing. His balance is off and his left eardrum feels strange, like something is stuck in there, muting the sounds of what he thinks might be explosions further away, but Steve’s replies as they stumble out into a hallway are somehow cheerful, so Bucky is willing to believe he’s the one who’s dying for once.  
  
As far as deaths go, it’s not so bad; he's had to witness much worse ones since arriving in Europe, although disappointingly the vision doesn’t lead him to a different location but takes him through the factory, trading brick walls for concrete and metal. It hurts less the further he walks, and by the time they reach the stairs he’s able to stand on his own. Steve reaches out to touch him every now and then, to check if he needs help or just to feel him there, but he hasn’t looked back since they left the corridor leading them away from where Bucky's had been kept a prisoner. It's almost as if they’re retracing the steps of that old story of a man tasked with leading his love from the underworld to bring her back to life, and all he had to do to ensure their success was to not look back. As far as Bucky can recall, he couldn’t resist the temptation and failed.  
  
He knows his death must be inevitable at this point, but it’s still a nice thought; Steve bringing him back to the land of the living. So he makes sure to catch up to Steve before he can turn around, elbows bumping together as they come to a stop in front of a railing, his hands gripping it tightly as he looks out at the scene before him.  
  
There’s a lot more fire than he expected there to be. Explosions can still be heard going off in the distance; from the sounds of it, there are likely similar sights all over the factory. He’s not entirely sure who set them off, if the premises are under attack or if the place is set to self-destruct.  
  
The fires have made the air around them scorchingly hot against his skin and a pain to breathe in, and it feels so real he briefly considers the idea that he might still be alive as he and Steve take another flight of stairs, but he can't get away from the fact that Steve isn’t supposed to be here, would never be sent to war with all his ailments, and no one outside of dreams grows that quickly.

Then on a landing across them, he spots an unfamiliar man and the doctor who kept coming back for him over and over, bringing shots and surgical tools and an eerie smile, and he’s certain it’s all just another nightmare. He's had them ever since that man got a hold of him, after all. His companion confirms that theory when he rips his own face off and reveals himself to be a red skeleton, and still, _still_ , Bucky can’t look away from the doctor. That round face and those beady eyes, the clammy hands Bucky has come to know all too well while on his back in a laboratory. They’re clutching a briefcase, now; such an ordinary thing for a pair of hands to do, yet all Bucky can think of when he sees them are tools and pain and humiliation.

Steve’s voice rips him out of the spiral of panic he’s started to go down; they have to get up, out. And just like old times, Bucky follows.

 

They’re greeted by a war zone once they get out, stumbling together, holding onto each other more out of relief than for support. His dream of Steve doesn’t seem surprised, and at least Bucky knows how to handle himself in a war zone. He grabs a rifle from a German corpse; a strange model he isn’t familiar with, but a trigger is a trigger just the same.

“Head towards the treeline!” Steve urges him, and together they make their way through the chaos. Someone’s been running tanks ahead of them, and judging by the uniforms on the casualties left in their wake, whoever is driving them is on their side. There are too few and too poorly geared people around for this to be a rescue mission, so somehow there must have been a breakout.

Bucky will take it. It’s just—

“Steve,” he manages to get out. “Is this actually happening?” There are too many sounds around them, wrapped up in too many smells, the weight of Steve against him too solid for a dream.

“Pretty sure,” Steve says as he grabs him by the arm to steer him around a dead body. It would’ve been disrespectful to step on it, Bucky supposes, no matter the uniform it's in.

"A man _ripped off his own face_. Like in a comic book!" They used to read them together back when they were kids, playing out the heroes' adventures when they ran out of pages. "And you're telling me that was _real?_ "

Steve sort of shrugs, gesturing vaguely at himself. "Sometimes strange things happen to people?"

“So we’re alive. We’re both alive.”

“For now, at least.”

Well. Bucky will take that. too.

 

A respectable amount of former prisoners have gathered past the treeline, apparently waiting for someone called Captain America. Steve, a little awkwardly, confirms that it’s him, fiddling with a burnt metal box Bucky has no earthly idea what he means to do with.

“Please tell me you have a compass”, he mutters, rubbing a palm against his forehead, and Steve nods with what seems to be relief as he hands one over. Its casing is a little dented, but it works. Steve knows the coordinates for where they are and Bucky remembers the ones for where they want to go back to, so as long as they can all stay on their feet and aren't followed, the chances of survival for most of them aren't bad. Bucky is a bit uncertain on some of the soldiers who got injured breaking out, but staying on the tanks should give them a better shot. He feels a burst of joy when Dum-Dum climbs out of one of them and gives him a salute; not many from his unit made it to the factory and fewer still made it out, so it's a relief to know that his friend managed to be one of them.

Aside from the occasional order called out, they mostly walk in silence. Bucky has a lot of questions, but few of them seem appropriate to ask around the men who believe Steve to be a Captain. Bucky has no earthly idea how that might’ve happened; he doesn’t even know  _how_ this tall broad man can be his Steve. He doesn’t doubt that it’s him because no matter what, Bucky will know Steve, but that doesn’t change the fact that it makes absolutely no sense.

“You have so much to explain when we get back.”

Steve hums in a way that sounds decidedly guilty.

“All of it.”

In the meantime, though, Bucky takes comfort in that he still talks like he used to and still touches him like he always has.

Even if he has come to admit to himself that he’d like more than what they have always had.

 

That admittance, made only in secret to himself as it is, causes him a sharp pang of pain when they march into their old camp and are greeted by a sharp-looking uniform-clad woman with dark red lips and rich auburn hair that's perfectly styled even though they're not that far from enemy lines. There is something in the way she looks at Steve as they speak, with pride and satisfaction, that makes him think it’s all for the best he didn’t let his intended deathbed confession slip after all.

“That’s Peggy,” Steve tells him afterward, sounding almost bashful. "I mean, Agent Carter."

“Figures that’s how you’d meet someone on your own. Just join the war!” He has to laugh at it, just a little. Of _course_ this is how Steve would find a way to talk to a woman without making an embarrassment of himself; run into one with a common cause in standing up against the injustices of the world in a war zone. Bucky really ought to have been on the lookout for dames on the more shouty, punchy side. “If only I’d known you wanted someone who could take us both in a fight at the same time, some of those dates might’ve turned out a bit different.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve insists, but Bucky doesn’t feel like hearing it. He slings an arm around his shoulder; it’s odd, having to put his arm so much further up, but damned if he’s going to stop holding on to Steve while he still can.

“Whatever you say, pal.”

“I say we should consider some strategy instead of your plans of marrying me off”, he mutters.

“Because rescuing a few hundred men assumed to be as good as dead isn’t enough for one day, right?”

Steve frowns. “It’s not about that. Just, now the brass has got to let me do more than before, and I think they could be persuaded to listen to what I have in mind.”

"What _did_ you do before?" Steve had been evasive on that point during their walk back to camp, and Bucky isn't going to make a liar out of himself by pretending he isn't curious.

"Oh. You know." He shuffles in place, cheeks tinged pink. "Raising morale. Propaganda... things." 

"Propaganda things."

"Which aren't nearly as important as planning our next move."

It does something to Bucky's heart to hear Steve include him in whatever it is he's got in mind by default like they are still a unit, the same as back in Brooklyn. It's like a little skip in the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he tries to rein the feeling in. To keep that, too, like things were in Brooklyn. 

“Alright. Let’s hear it, then.” If nothing else, it's going to be a welcome distraction from the wait to get checked out by the camp's medical staff. Just the thought of having another doctor poke at him is sending shivers down his spine.

In a way it's fun to see that at least Steve's brain doesn't seem to have grown any, because he has the brilliant and realistic plan to ask a bunch of recently liberated POW:s to join him back on the battlefield, since they all worked so well together during the escape.

"Well. They're all idiots," Bucky allows, "so they just might go for it."

 

Unsurprisingly, the medical exam turned out to be a struggle to get through. Just being looked at by the staff had been uncomfortable, and he couldn't escape the feeling that his inability to answer even half their questions had made them suspicious. But he hadn't been sure how long he was at that table, or what it was their doctor or scientist had wanted from him. He could tell them about being given shots that burnt like fire under his skin and having even his head restrained, of the shocks and the prodding, but it wasn't as if the Germans had told him why they had done any of it. Asked him questions, sure, that he responded to with only his name, rank and serial number, but that was the extent of their conversations.

By the time Steve had come by to deliver the frankly surprising news of his plan being approved by his superiors Bucky had been shaking and sweating from what he didn't want to admit might be fear. It was something in the way the head doctor looked at him, thoughtful and curious, that set his nerves on edge. He was incredibly glad Steve's newöy acquired status as a war hero gave him enough pull to take Bucky with him before anyone could insist on drawing his blood; the mere thought of having another needle in his arm was enough to bring him close to vomiting. He'd tried to wave it off when Steve asked; _just exhausted, they didn't exactly feed us much, I'll be fine in a bit_ , but his excuses left his friend with a familiar little frown Bucky knew meant he wasn't off the hook just yet. He'd managed to avoid further questions so far only by virtue of not having had any time alone to speak of as they got shipped back to England, but he can tell it's coming. He's just not sure how to explain the strange unease that has settled under his skin after his time on that table.

And now he's at the tavern where Steve has set up to meet his intended team; Bucky waved at them on his way in, then retreated to the bar to try and calm his nerves with a drink in relative peace. It's not as easy as it used to be. He chalks it up to not ever having had quite this many nerves to tangle with before; he knows he could go home. He knows he could accept the offer of a honourable discharge, get back to the states and his family and be done with the entire war.

It's just that a big part of his family is here, now, and it's the part that doesn't have the sense to watch its own back.

He stares morosely down at his drink as the man at the piano starts up another song, the patrons singing along to the familiar tune;  _There is a tavern in the town, in the town, and there my dear love sits him down, sits him down, and drinks his wine as merry as can be and never, never thinks of me._ He was feeling down already, but the lyrics are tempting him towards wallowing.

It's an unfair thought to consider, even if it's just a song. Steve doesn't know, and even if he did he wouldn’t think of him the same way. He’s never had any reason to, and Bucky’s got no right to want to be his everything. Because in the end, when Bucky takes the time to really think about it, that’s what it comes down to, or close enough: it's what he would have been if they’d tried to be anything together before the war. It wasn’t something Bucky had liked to think about, how Steve had trouble keeping other friends for long or how others didn’t find his righteous antics as admirable or amusing as Bucky did and tired of them.

And maybe that’s part of why Bucky wouldn't have told him even if he had figured it out sooner, because what if Steve had felt an obligation to reciprocate out of fear of losing his closest friend? It's not easy imagining Steve fearing anything, but maybe that would have been it.

Or maybe Bucky’s just a coward trying to find excuses not to be anything else. He hunches in over himself, eyes cast downwards to his drink, ears focused on the song. It feels louder than tavern singing usually is, which he chalks up to the words being sung hitting him harder than any other could right now.

_Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, do not let this parting grieve thee for the time has come for you and I to say goodbye._

He’s not the kind of a coward that stays behind, though. He’s the sort of coward who can’t cut Steve lose, and that’s the biggest reason he won’t take that honourable discharge and return home.

It’s not much of a home without Steve there, anyway.

 

“See? I told you”, he says as Steve approaches with his new, strange, heavy steps, flashing him a double thumbs up. He's dressed in a brand new uniform and looks so good in it, it almost hurts. It's still strange to see him like this; Bucky liked the way he used to look just fine, but he could always tell by the way he carried himself that he was in pain, and now that's all been stripped away. So as fond as he was of Steve's smaller stature and sharp features, it's a relief to see him move without hurting. “They’re all idiots.”

Steve just gives him a big grin. “And how about you? You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

Bucky shakes his head with a fond chuckle. “Hell no.” As much appeal as the idea of walking right behind Steve in that ridiculous outfit might hold, it’s not enough to motivate anyone back into a _war._ But. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight? I’m following him.” It’s what he’s been doing for most of his life at this point, and he sees no reason to stop just because Steve can take a few more punches now. And he ought to have someone at his backs who is there for _Steve Rogers_ , not the new captain.

Steve gives him a crooked little smile, and Bucky’s heart aches at the view. It’s so much like his old one, so familiar even on this broader face that he can’t resist teasing.

“But you’re keeping the outfit, right?” He winks for effect and judging by Steve’s exasperated look, he sees it.

“You know what? It’s kind of growing on me.”

He’s about to gear up to rib him about it some more when the background singing drifts off into silence, and they both turn to see what the cause is; Agent Carter, dressed to the nine’s in a deep red dress, caught the eye of every man in the room. She gives Bucky the briefest of looks before turning her full attention to Steve, and Bucky gets it. He does. He’s been stealing glances whenever it has seemed safe to do so, from the walk from the factory and at camp. Not just because Steve is something to look at, but in part to get used to his new, bigger self, so unlike his old in some ways but still so very, very himself, and to make sure he’s still there with him. He still hasn't been able to wrap his mind around them being safe for now.

No one’s picking the singing back up, but he knows how the song goes.

_He left me for a damsel dark, damsel dark._

It's not the same because Steve was never his, but it still makes his insides churn to see someone else look at him like he’s the grandest thing in the world. Up until now, that has always been reserved for Bucky. And even though he has always wanted Steve to have more, have hoped for him to find someone to settle down with, someone who’d be able to see in him the same things Bucky always has, someone who'd appreciate and cherish him the way he deserves to, it _hurts_ to witness it. She looks at Steve like he's the only person in the room and speaks with focus and intent in what might as well be code to Bucky because of _course_ they have rapport, of course they have been building something he has no part or insight in while he was crawling through the mud in Italy.

And then Steve doesn’t take her dancing even after she gives him a little speech of waiting for the right partner, which is frankly a waste. She leaves, just like that, and Bucky can't believe what he's seeing.

“Steve. What the _fuck_.”

“What?” He’s even wearing a sweet little frown like he has no idea what Bucky’s talking about, the idiot.

“You could've asked her for a dance. She would’ve said yes. The _right partner_.” It's painful to say out loud, but he’s not going to stand by and let Steve blow it.

“Oh! Well.” He looks down, sheepishly. “Still can’t dance, you know. Be a shame to scuff up her shoes?”

Bucky just shakes his head, downing the last of his drink. The glass sits differently in his hand than the ones at home does, but if he's being honest with himself, this place is a lot classier than the places he frequented in New York. Makes sense they have different glasses. The taste is better, too. “All those times I offered to teach you.”

Steve swallows, lowering his voice. “Do it now, then?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, spreading his arms out to gesture at the room. “Well,” Steve continues, “not here, just— now. My quarters are big enough?”

And, yeah. Might as well, yeah. He gives Steve a punch on the shoulder, indicating he move forward. “Lead on, then. As much as you can manage without a few lessons, I mean.” He takes care to stumble on the way out and gives their new team a pretend-drunken wave. No reason to not make it look like that’s why they’re leaving together. Deep down he knows no one has any reason to suspect what Bucky wants, but he still can't shake the fear that someone might look at him and just  _know_.

It’s not cold out, but walking through the darkness of the late hour still gives him chills from how they remind him of the dark of the factory at night, of first the backbreaking work and then the experiments he can’t completely recall but knows were infinitely worse. Steve steadies him; he doesn’t really need it, but he appreciates it all the same. Craves it, even. He sighs.

“Was this what you always wanted?” He bumps against his shoulder. “Being... this.”

“Well.” There’s some humour in his voice. “The lungs working properly are a big help, yeah.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess they would be.” He swallows around the words he shouldn’t let out. “But, it's just. The rest. It was good. You were good. Like you were. You just... you were good.”

Steve snorts, self-deprecating. “Not so useful, though.”

“Not everything has to be about being useful. You don’t gotta risk your life for it to count, you know? I mean what I said, back at the Expo. There are so many important things for people to do.” He's not just talking about the war, but it's safer to let Steve believe that he is.

“I don’t regret it. I reckon you’d be dead if I hadn’t done it.”

Bucky just laughs. “I thought I was. For the longest fucking time. I thought it was some kind of dying dream, you there, getting me out, some guy ripping his face off—”

Steve lets out a small _oh,_ like this is a new but not altogether surprising turn of events. “You did seem a bit more accepting of the situation than I expected you to be, I guess.” Then he goes stiff behind him like he just realised what Bucky had been accepting about had been his own death. “Buck...”

He shakes his head. “That’s just. What war’s like, Steve. You get used to knowing your turn might be coming up.”

It's an awful feeling, knowing that it’s something Steve, too, is going to have to learn about now.

 

He carries that thought with him up to Steve’s quarters, and to his great relief they don’t run into anyone on the way; he has no idea how to school his face into something resembling normalcy. He’ll do it for Steve once he has to look him in the eye, but he can’t dig up the energy for it for anyone else.

When they make it inside the room, though, there’s no need for him to make that effort because Steve pulls him into his arms as soon as the door closes behind them, holding him close. Bucky can rest his forehead against his shoulder, now, and... it’s a nice feeling. Safe. Grounding. He holds on tight. “Hey. Steve. What’s...?”

“I just. I thought you were dead,” he mumbles into his hair. “I thought I lost my last— I thought. I’d lost everything. They told me you were dead, but— I had to try, Buck. I had to get you back if I could. I had to.”

“Hey, no. C’mon, Steve, you know I appreciate it, even if you had to break the laws of physics to do it.” It feels like a deeply underwhelming thing to say. “Look, I— look.” He rubs at Steve’s back. “It’s a real difficult thing to say, okay? Thanking someone for saving their life.”

Steve makes a deeply undignified sound. “You’ve saved mine, you know.”

“Yeah, and you had a hard time talking about that too, as I recall,” Bucky says, earning him an offended huff from Steve.

“I had been _choking!_ It was hard to talk in general!”

“Well. Some things are just. Always hard to talk about,” Bucky allows.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, letting his arms drop from Bucky’s sides, pushing his head away from his hair to look him in the eyes. Bucky doesn’t know what he sees in them, but he hopes it isn't longing. He’s not sure what to make of what he sees in Steve’s; something desperate and painful, and he wonders if it’s similar to how he used to look during Steve’s close calls with pneumonia. His gaze travels down to Steve’s lips, fuller now but otherwise shaped the same, and he _wants_.

Steve’s right hand comes up to the left side of Bucky’s head, carefully touching his ear. “It healed up, huh?”

“Yeah. It was already getting there by the time you got to me.” He swallows. “Time was a bit hazy during all that, but. It. Had been a while, I think.” Steve nods, cupping his cheek, and time slows down a little because they don’t do this, do not touch each other quite so tenderly as Steve is doing now.

Bucky leans into it despite himself, reminding himself to breathe. Steve looks so uncertain, so lost, that Bucky has to find something to say to make that look go away.

“I had something I wanted to say before I— well. Like a deathbed confession, I guess?" He won't be able to tell him the entire thing, but part of it should still be said. Maybe in a better way than this, though, because Steve’s face changes from lost to pained. "But, uh. I’m not dying now.” He obviously isn't doing a good job of this. Time to regroup. “So how about that dancing lesson?”

That one works better because it earns him a look of disbelief that grows into frustration, which is familiar territory. Then Steve juts his jaw out in that mulish way Bucky has been trying to not love too much. “Fine. Or just a dance, maybe?” He drops his right hand to grab Bucky’s, the other falling to rest at his waist.

“A dance.” Bucky can hear his voice go up an octave, startled and wondering, but he puts his other hand on Steve's shoulder all the same. They must look awkward, but it doesn't quite feel it and Bucky can't find it in himself to mind.

“With the _right partner._ ”

“But. Peggy,” Bucky tries, and Steve shakes his head.

“‘s story's not mine to tell. She didn't mean me. If she had she would’ve just asked me right then and there. She was— she got me a plane. And a pilot. So I could get you back. I,” his voice drops to a mumble, “guess it takes one to know one, maybe.”

Bucky just blinks up at him, because none of this makes any sense. Unless. Oh.

“ _Oh_.”

“You don’t have to— I get if you don’t— and I would never have said, but you almost died, Buck. It was all I could think of.”

Bucky swallows, feeling as if his heart is about to stop from the sheer force of him trying to hold back hope that Steve is saying what he thinks he is, but maybe he doesn't have to. Maybe this is where he stops being a coward. “You almost died a lot of times. I guess I might've had something I should have told you then, too. I just didn't understand what I wanted to say for a long time. And later I thought, what if you’d feel obligated?”

Steve makes a miserable face. “And I thought, what if you’d just take pity on me?”

He has to shake his head at that. “Steve, no. You don’t get it. You’ve got to know, you've always been the best thing in my life, the best person I know. Ever since the start.”

Steve starts to smile, a tiny hesitant thing, but there’s a tinge of hope to it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans in closer, and Steve dips his head down to meet his lips in a kiss.

It's so different from all other kisses he's had before; sweet and tender, hesitant and shy. With the women he used to take out dancing he always took the lead when it came to kisses as well, but now he revels in letting Steve be the one to part his lips with his tongue and he opens his mouth in welcome. They fit together in a way he has never fit with anyone else, and it has nothing to do with the changes Steve has gone through. If Bucky had had the courage to do this years ago, he knows they would have fit together just as well as they do now. The thought makes him smile, right into the kiss, and it's the sweetest thing he has ever known.

He briefly breaks the kiss to say "The right partner, huh?" since Steve did take hold of him for a dance, after all, and Steve responds with a laugh and slowly leads them to sway together; just back and forth, no real steps, but it fills Bucky with a sense of rightness.

"Yeah. The right partner." Then he moves his hands to cup Bucky's face and presses another kiss to his lips, unskilled but enthusiastic, and Bucky melts against him. It's almost strange in a way to suddenly feel so happy because they're still at war and about to go back behind enemy lines, but somehow it's like his heart fits better inside his chest than it did before, and every breath he takes is sweeter.

Bucky wants to bring him even closer and breathe in his entire being, so he tugs at Steve's waist to urge him towards the bed. It's a proper one with an actual thick mattress, so unlike the narrow bunks and cots and bedrolls Bucky has gotten used to during his time away from home, and Steve stumbles first over his own feet and then Bucky's in his eagerness to bring him over there. They keep kissing even as the back of Bucky's knees hits the mattress and they tumble down on it together, not wanting to break apart again so soon. Bucky grabs at Steve's collar to bring him closer, nibbling at his lower lip and is rewarded with a sound somewhere behind a whine and a sigh. Steve straddles him and for a moment Bucky's heart is beating faster for the wrong reason; he's feeling crowded, trapped, breaths coming in too quick.

"Buck?" Steve sits back, frowning, and Bucky shakes his head.

"Just. Not so used to being on my back again, yet. Let me—" Steve's mouth shapes an  _oh_ in understanding and draws further back, letting Bucky sit back up, and his breathing starts to come in easier. "I'm fine," he insists. He is. More than, really, now that he's up and looking at Steve. He reaches out to start unbuttoning his jacket, needy for his bare skin, and Steve leans in for a careful kiss.

"Okay?" He wonders after pulling back, and Bucky nods, mourning the loss of the soft touch of his lips against his.

"Yeah. Think I'll be the one straddling you, though." He says with a grin, and Steve responds in kind. His perfectly fitted jacket ends up on the floor, quickly followed by Bucky's slightly too big shirt. "Do you have anything to...?" He starts, and Steve nods, getting up to rummage through one of his bags. Bucky ends up throwing his pants at him after kicking them off because some things never change.

"Hey!" Steve protests, then try to toss a jar of Vaseline at his head. Bucky snatches it out of the air, easy as anything, making Steve pout as he steps out of his own pants.

"Don't sulk, just get back here."

"Maybe I'd feel more welcome to if you didn't throw things at me."

Bucky shrugs. "Eh." Steve comes when he beckons, though, taking Bucky's outstretched hand in his own and brings it up to his lips for a kiss. The tenderness of it makes Bucky's heart ache. "I love you." He has to say; he doesn't know if he's ever said it out loud before, but he knows it has always been true.

"I love you, too," comes the answer, and for a while, they just smile at each other. Then Steve settles down on the bed in front of him and they return to their kissing, their previous slow and sweet pace quickly growing more heated. Bucky climbs onto Steve's lap, grinding against him to tease and catching Steve's little gasps with lips. It's one of the best sounds he's ever heard. He scoots back a bit, bracketing Steve's thighs with his own as he rests his knees against the mattress and reaches down to wrap his left hand around Steve's dick and revels in the silky smoothness of the hard length while Steve looks at him with wide eyes, pupils blown huge and dark.

"I think," Bucky says, voice low and heady with lust, "that'll work myself open, then get back on your lap and ride you. That sound good?"

Steve's eyes go even wider than before and he nods eagerly, then looks down at Bucky's crotch. "Can I...?" He starts, sounding awed and almost shy.

"As much as you want." And it's not like he has dreamed exactly of this, because he started on those when Steve was still short and scrawny, but it's still a bit like a dream come true: Steve's touch, tinged with a sort of reverence, handling the most intimate parts of him like it's something precious and beautiful. He sighs, content, and they resume their kissing, staying like that as they find their rhythm with hands and mouths. 

When the urge for more starts to overwhelm him, Bucky pulls back to coat his right hand with Vaseline, then reaches down to slick his hole up, carefully adding one finger after another until he's certain he'll be able to take all of Steve in without issue. He looks much the same as before there, for which Bucky is strangely glad. It's just nice, somehow, that not every part of him changed, that not everything needed to become something different. Steve can't keep his hands off him as he prepares himself, hands wandering over his sides, caressing his cheek, his hair.

They keep their eyes locked on each other's as Bucky lines Steve's dick up with his entrance, and he thinks they are both holding their breath when Bucky starts to sink down on him. Slowly, slowly, like the sweetest torment; Steve gasps and Bucky kisses him hungrily like he wants to swallow every little sound he makes. He himself lets out a small whine when he starts to rock against his's dick and Steve wraps his arms around him, holding him in place as they move together. He places his hands on Steve's shoulders, unused to the firm muscles he finds there but eager to get to know them in all the ways he never had the chance to with the old set; by touch, by scent, by taste. He dips his head down to press a kiss against one shoulder, then the collarbone, neck, trailing more kisses all the way back up to his lips. It's the closest he has ever been or felt to anyone, and Bucky doesn't want it to ever end. 

When it does he shakes in Steve's arms, thighs sore and strained, and he holds on to Steve for all he's worth as he fills him up. They pant against each other, breaths mixing together like they were always meant to breathe together like this.

This, Bucky thinks as they curl up together afterward, spent and sated and facing each other, is how it's supposed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> True story time: At first, I started on a historical AU taking place during one of the gold rushes because I love history and that's a really interesting time period with a lot of inspiring places and events, but then I found that I couldn't trust myself to not have Bucky lose an arm to a bear or something. I was like, "self, no, you can't do that, that's gross and horrifying, you can't put that in a gift, that's weird, no one wants that, do that on your own time", so now we have this, a pleasant story where everyone smells better than they would have in the 19th century and nothing bad happens. Except for the war. And the torture. You know.
> 
> Maybe in the future, I will complete that gold rush fic on my own time. Hopefully with a beta available to tell me "Combo, no, don't do that, no one wants that, I know we all like to make fun of the time in the comics where Bucky fought a bear but it's actually not that funny, let it go and just have a mining accident like a normal person who knows how to be appropriate, seriously, put the mauling down, trust me on this".
> 
> (This is my roundabout way of admitting I did not have a beta for this, so if you see some supremely awkward phrasing somewhere, please let me know; this is not my native language and sometimes I make some odd choices.)


End file.
